


Interpretation

by vulcunt



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: Academic Language, Alien Biology, Alien Sex, Courtship, Erotic Poetry, Klingon Poetry, Klingons have two penises, M/M, Oral Sex, That's just a fact
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-15 14:47:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29191026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vulcunt/pseuds/vulcunt
Summary: Worf lends Will a book of erotic Klingon poetry. Will is on board with everything about it.
Relationships: William Riker/Worf
Comments: 5
Kudos: 14





	Interpretation

Will watched as Worf drummed his fingers against the tabletop. He observed the way Worf’s ridges drew together in consternation, before smoothing out as he continued reading his book. Worf held the physical book open in one hand, while his left drummed quietly. His drink remained untouched, forgotten.

Will did not neglect his own drink. He sipped leisurely, watching—observing Worf from his seat at the bar. At this hour of the day, patrons at Ten Forward were few. Will himself was only there because he was “recovering” from a wayward phaser blast to the leg. A parting gift from yesterday’s away mission on Tarsus VII. At any other time, Will would have immediately been engaged by some officer: either to shoot the shit, or to iron out some such mission detail off the clock, or something similar. As it stood, Will was a free agent at the moment. He knew from having signed off on every bridge crew member’s schedule, that Worf was also free for the next four or five hours.

Will tapped the side of his glass thoughtfully, considering Worf.

To be sure, the sight was atypical. In this day and age, consumption of non-digital-born reading material was rare, especially on a starship. It was more efficient, in terms of storage capacity, to digitally house a wide selection of leisure reading materials in a designated library database on board. Any additional non-academic or non-professional materials could be requested via subspace through the Federation Interlibrary Request system. As far as Will knew, the Federation Information Consortium didn’t have any regular physical services available for active Starfleet personnel serving remotely on starships.

All this to say, Worf had likely purchased and brought and physical reading materials onboard himself. A premeditated action, as it were.

“D’you know what he’s reading?”

Will turned, raising an interested brow in the direction of the barkeep. Guinan smiled placidly, indicating Worf with a nod.

“No clue,” Will admitted with an easy smile of his own, lifting his drink.

“He’s been in here every week for the last month, always ‘round this hour. Different book every time.”

“That so?” Will leaned in, the universal body language of co-conspirators.

Guinan nodded as she braced herself over the bar to speak Will’s language, so to speak. She leaned in close but didn’t offer any additional information. More like a challenge. “Maybe you should go over an investigate, Commander?”

“Why haven’t you?”

Guinan leaned back, smiling magnanimously. She picked up an already clean glass and started polishing it. “It’s none of my business.”

Will felt both his eyebrows raise high at the deflection. Everything on this ship, possibly everything in this quadrant, was Guinan’s business. Will twisted to look back at Worf. As Will watched, the Klingon raised a finger to his mouth then flipped a page of his book with it.

Alrighty then. To the victor, the spoils, after all.

Will turned to raise his glass in askance, but Guinan had already finished pouring him a refill for his reconnaissance mission. Will gritted a small, “Thanks,” before taking the last swig of his old drink and abandoning his barstool, new drink in hand.

“Lieutenant Worf,” Will said, announcing himself as he approached.

Worf broke from his reverie. He blinked at Will before returning the greeting.

“Commander Riker.”

“Mind me asking what you’re reading? Me and Guinan have a pool running, I’d be interested to know if I won,” Will imparted as he took the empty seat across from Worf.

Little, white, socially accepted lies greased the wheels of friendship and comradery, that’s what Will knew. It still threw Data for a loop, but Worf understood the nuances of human comradery better than Data. Teasing lies and bluffs were a large part of Klingon culture as well.

“I doubt it, Commander,” Worf hesitated, thumbing the fibers of the book in his hand thoughtfully before disclosing, “I am reading high Klingon poetry.”

He only sounded slightly discomforted at the admission, but he wasn’t blustering, and didn’t seem outright affronted at Will’s inquiry. Will didn’t let himself hesitate either, rolling with the punches despite his own surprise.

Will let his wide, sly smile do its work to put Worf at ease. “Love poetry, Lieutenant?”

“Yes, actually,” Worf returned, point blank, before his mind seemed to catch up with his mouth. Will watched, bemused, as Worf blinked rapidly before soldiering on.

“They are the selected works of the great romantic master, Ochok.” Worf’s eyes skirted to Will’s shoulders and chin, not quite reaching Will’s gaze. “It is considered quite beautiful prose, among Klingons.”

Will took a sip of his drink. “Never heard of him,” Will admitted, interested, encouraging.

Worf rose to the occasion of the unasked question.

“He was a warrior poet, held in the highest regard by the Reclaw Imperial Court,” Worf continued, allowing the slim volume to close over his finger and bringing it to rest on the tabletop. From his seat, Will could see the book cover had no title. The stretched puce cloth was instead embossed and overlaid with a decorative knot pattern.

“Sounds like a real lady-killer. Ah, North American colloquial,” Will explained at the look on Worf’s face. “A Casanova, a mate desirable by many.”

Worf raised his own eyebrow, his forehead ridges scrunching in tandem. “Ochok’s lovers were all notably male, most were members of the Imperial Court. Still, there was no…lady-killing…to speak of.”

“I’ll amend my statement,” Will said, smiling good-naturedly. “Just a killer then, if that’s the case.”

“Do humans of North America always liken lovemaking to slaughter?”

“Other Earth cultures sometimes do as well.” _La petite mort_ came to mind.

Worf finally picked up his drink, probably warm and watered down after being neglected for so long. “Ochok was considered to be very accomplished in many styles of Klingon courtship, but his poetry and recitation skills were unparalleled during his tenure at the Imperial Court.”

Will was aware, tangentially, of common Klingon courtship rituals. He’d tangled with a female Klingon or two himself. He’d gotten the impression that, from the female perspective, there was a lot of hand-to-hand combat involved. But also that, somehow, to fight back against a potential female mate was, for a male, considered effeminate. He had not been aware that poetry recitation figured into Klingon courtship rituals at all.

Will decided to cut right to the heart of it.

“Any particular reason you’ve taken up Klingon love poetry, Worf?”

Worf set down his drink, not looking Will in the eye.

“I have always maintained an…academic interest in Ochok’s work. And in the works of Uch’uss and Batik the Slender,” Worf continued, admirably. Will could tell the blood was rushing to Worf’s ridges—they seemed to darken under the lights of Ten Forward. Will decided to give the flustered lieutenant a break.

“Well you’ve convinced me,” Will lifted his drink in salute. “Maybe I’ll download a translation for myself. A bit of light reading before bed never goes amiss, am I right?”

Will was about to change the subject to something unimportant, like standard warp coils, before he noticed Worf visibly mulling over something. He was practically fidgeting with his physical copy of Ochok’s poems, pushing it around the tabletop.

“Perhaps you would like to borrow my copy?” Worf finally got out.

It was Will’s turn to blink, surprised.

“I can’t read Klingon,” Will blurted, before adding, “I mean, not well enough to get any kind of literary or linguistic nuance out of—”

“This copy has been translated into Standard,” Worf interrupted, holding out his priceless physical copy of what seemed to be his personally favorite collection of love poems. Will did not miss the strange look in Worf’s eye before the lieutenant dropped his gaze. “Quite—quite skillfully, I must say. It is true to the letter and spirit of Ochok’s original works.”

“I—” Will certainly couldn’t refuse. And he didn’t.

Will took the offered book. He barely wasted a moment after taking it before thumbing his fingers over the embossed cover.

“Thanks Worf, I’ll—I’ll be careful with it.”

“I have other, more complete copies of Ochok’s works.”

“All the same, a physical book is an important thing to any book lover.”

The strange look in Worf’s eye was there again. “Indeed.”

“Well, thanks for this.” Will tried to inject his usual, casual joviality into his voice as he held up the slim purple volume. “I better get back to _recuperating_ or Crusher will have my balls in a vice. Ah, another expression.”

Worf’s face cleared up more quickly than before. Perhaps he had heard that expression already.

“It is no problem. I wish you a speedy recovery, Commander.” Worf barely hesitated before adding, “I hope you enjoy the…poetry.”

“I’m sure I will.”

Will got up, taking one last drink from his beverage before tucking the book under his arm and casting a meaningful look in the direction of the bar. He received a much more nonplussed, knowing look in return as he made his way out of Ten Forward. Guinan’s knowing look seemed to follow him all the way back to his quarters.

___

If Will could express _Ochok’s Selected Works in Verse and Song_ in one word, it would be _steamy_.

Even translated, the poems were filled with raw sensuality. Will was frankly surprised and astounded that Worf was managing to read this kind of…intimate literature (in public!) without becoming overheated and flustered.

The first evening Will had settled in, still on Crusher’s rest orders, he had expected something of a war epic. Bold lines and descriptors of mating in the heat of battle perhaps. What he got was…

_My love’s soft breath, upon me breathed_

_A heave and sigh, slack longing be’n_

_Er’ dawn the wood, the thicket tangled_

_My heart’s free’d hand, rapture’s wrangle’d_

_His mouth in mine chest, a host overflow’d_

_A god’s hand in the wood—grasping, unsown._

Will had never read such artlessly erotic material. After quite a few passages of more of the same, he’d had to set the book aside, feeling very warm under the collar of his sleep clothes. If he continued, Will was sure Dr. Crusher would be able to read his guilty face and know he had not rested at all.

All the poems in this one volume at least, were like that—hedonistic, evocative words invoking every sexual act under the Klingon sun. Brazenly sensual didn’t even begin to cover it. Sometimes passages were emotionally wrought, written in the memory of a lover struck down in battle, for example. But more often than not, the poet Ochok chose to immortalize his lovers’ _love_ , their bodies and lives as he knew them, over their deaths, over their battle victories even.

All in all, the one volume Worf lent him contained 150 poems of pure Klingon lust and longing. The fact that Worf had even lent the book to Will astounded him. It was obviously a very personal belonging. When Will finally caught up with Worf again to return it (four days and three steamy nights later) he could barely contain himself from falling all over Ochok’s prose.

“So you enjoyed the master.” It was a cautious statement, curious even. It matched the searching look in Worf’s eye.

“Did I ever! I never thought I’d regret choosing Andorian Theatre and Stage as an elective over Klingon Romantic Literature back at the Academy.”

“I am glad I lent it to you then,” Worf looked down at the embossed cover of the book, a small thing in his large hands. Will was honestly pretty sad to see it go—it was a beautiful book. But it was Worf’s property and he’d finished it pretty quickly, even going back to reread some of the more…memorable verses.

Worf seemed to shake himself from his thoughts. “I’m always gratified when others see the beauty of the master’s works.”

This was the opportunity Will had been waiting for. “You mentioned you had a more complete set of Ochok’s works. Would those also happen to be in Standard? Asking for a friend.”

Will knew Worf understood that expression. “You wish to read more of Ochok’s works?” Worf asked, bemused.

“Absolutely,” Will turned up the wattage on his most endearing smile. “He really knocked my socks off the first time. Truly.”

Neither of them brought up the fact that Will could easily access or request a translation of Ochok’s complete works through the Federation Information Consortium’s library system.

Worf blinked. “Well,” Worf let his arms drop to his sides, still gripping the book. But for Worf standards, he didn’t appear particularly uncomfortable. He even seemed…excited? Something about the restlessness in his shoulders. “If you were heading to the mess hall, my quarters are in that direction. We can pick up the set on the way. You should be aware though, Commander,” Worf pointed out matter-of-factly, “There are twelve volumes in the set of Ochok’s complete works.”

Will hadn’t intended to go to the mess hall at all, but the opportunity to pick at Worf’s…knowledge and love of the Klingon romantics, let’s say, was too good to pass up. “The more the merrier, Worf. Lead the way.”

Worf nodded and together they set off down the hall from Engineering towards the turbolift. As they walked, nearly shoulder to shoulder, Will, overstimulated from several days of intense bodily introspection through the medium of poetry, imagined he could feel the heat that Worf’s body was generating. He imagined it, perhaps, stretching the space between them…

Will cleared his throat lightly, “You mentioned a Batik the Slender the other day…?”

Worf’s eyes seemed to light up as they entered the turbolift, ready to give Will a crash course in Klingon romantics.

___

Of course, Will had looked up all that information on day one of Operation Does Worf Want to Engage in Sexual Activity with Me?

Will was now aware, from a bit of light (not light at all, rather heavy actually) research, that while female Klingons courted through the medium of combat, male Klingons. Well.

Poetry as a medium of seduction was considered something of an esoteric art for humans. For Klingons poetry was very much an important social tool, a skill, really, in the same way dance, pick up lines, or engaging conversations worked to woo humans. Poetry, it turned out, operated in a similar way for Klingons, socially.

Will discovered that Klingon poetry meant for a female audience was more of the kind of thing he had expected— ballads and epics of great deeds and fighting prowess, celebrating a lover’s victories as well as their physical attributes. Ochok, his contemporaries, and those who followed his example, occupied a different category of the romantic genre—one wholly dedicated to the exuberance of sensuality, of the metaphorical and physical connection between individuals, a sub-genre free of “feminine seduction” and in effect, conflict or battle.

Will realized that perhaps his own cultural biases and stereotypes had previously informed his own expectations of Klingon art and culture. That Ochok should have been the antithesis of major tenets of Klingon life, and therefore obscure and likely not particularly popular was a granted to Will.

He had been so very, very wrong about that.

In the same way humans obsessed over great poets like Li Bai and Rumi, Klingons in the academic sphere seemed to be obsessed with Ochok and his peers. Scholars poured over his works, examining and reexamining them endlessly. Multiple interpretations of lines and phrases layered upon each other with each successive academic generation. One could even define one’s own preference of interpretation by school of thought or by specified Ochok scholar and be understood to be of a certain personality or mindset with the admission. So much had _analysis_ of the text weighed into Klingon contemporary social consciousness.

It reminded Will of the Shakespearean scholars of Earth—anyone could enjoy Shakespeare, but enough people were significantly hardcore about it that they could construct an entire career out of the analysis, interpretation, and celebration of one person’s work.

Will though, Will had a feeling that Worf was not trying to turn Will into an Ochok scholar or debater. They talked about the text enthusiastically, to be sure. Worf was obviously well versed in Ochok scholarship. But he was also a fan of Ochok’s contemporaries and peers—Uch’uss and D'atseq, son of J’woth. He was also well versed in “the opposition”, or the antithesis of Ochok’s romantic purity.

Batik the Slender wrote in an entirely different style, one which held no flowery language, no respect, no love even. Graphic, violent verses of prose, the kind spat at an enemy—gory, guttural, unhinged—this was the work of “the opposition.” “The opposition,” Will learned, was a school of thought concerning male/male romance percolating in other areas of the Klingon zeitgeist during Ochok’s time—a hyper feminization of the Ochok example.

A lot of blood and guts, to be frank. A lot of (artful!) comparison of men’s intestines to the length and breadth of their…members. It was beautiful prose, but an acquired taste, Will discovered.

Batik the Slender was said to be the hyper-feminine ideal of the male/male fantasy himself, considered an ethereal beauty as well as a deadly warrior by Klingon standards of the time. The kicker was, while Batik’s poetic camp was known as “the opposition” to Ochok’s style of writing, Batik himself had been a known lover to Ochok. It was salacious and scandalous at the time—Ochok’s greatest critic also sharing his bed. As it played out, Batik killed many of Ochok’s suitors, recalling his bloodlust for Ochok in multiple pieces. The exchange went both ways—Ochok incorporated Batik into many of his greatest verses, praising his lover’s sublime form and languishing in his betrayal.

But back to Operation Worf Wants to Bone Will, parentheses, question mark, end parentheses. Worf may have been timid at first, containing his love for romantic poetry so as not to run Will off. But their little book club had been going on for two solid months now. At this point, Will was familiar with the bulk of canonized male/male Klingon works, both of the “masculine” and “feminine” variety (and one or two volumes of Stak’s agender works, very interesting stuff in terms of rhyme and meter.) He and Worf had become a staple of Ten Forward, conversing loudly (totally not shouting) about certain interpretations of texts for the entertainment of amused patrons.

This is where Will often found himself on a free afternoon, post-beta shift. Doing his best not to throw his own drink in his security officer’s face.

“You’re insane! Ochok is obviously referring to a _different_ man when he’s talking about the honey drip! The first,“ Will held up one finger, the others tightly gripping his drink as he gestured, “Is a man who’s lead him astray and kept him on tether hooks, while the second,” Will practically waggled the additional finger in Worf’s face, “Is the man in whose arms he finds comfort to ease the _sting_ , that’s right, the _sting_ of betrayal.” Will took a big sip from his tumbler before remarking, “And I know y’all have bees on Qo’nos. I’ve seen them, they’re nightmarish.”

“ _That_ is a matter of opinion.”

“Their stingers are three inches long, Worf,” Will muttered into his glass. “You try getting stung by a whole hive and come out still going on about, how “they’re important parts of the ecosystem.””

“You sustained, at maximum, three stings, Commander.”

“Felt like a whole lot more.” Will lifted his glass again, before setting it down loudly without drinking. “And another thing—!”

And on and on.

They talked over drinks, and over dinner in the mess hall, where neither of them really had to eat dinner, as bridge crew officers with dining rooms and replicators in their quarters. They seemed to…tacitly and mutually come to the agreement that moving their conversations to private quarters would be…too intimate.

Until today.

Worf looked…well, not sheepish, or hopeful. In fact, he seemed deceptively placid.

“Your quarters?”

“Yes, I thought you might wish to discuss Kraduhl the Fleet-footed. The copy of his work I have is…too large to comfortably transport and the illuminations are…particularly priceless.”

Will lifted a hand to his chin, thinking. “Good point, kind of a close call yesterday.”

Yesterday Dr. Crusher had leaned over Will’s shoulder to tipsily comment on their little reading circle and nearly spilled half a glass of bourbon into Will’s lap. She narrowly missed ruining _Ochok’s Selected Works in Verse and Song,_ which they had returned to in order to discuss it in greater detail.

“Alrighty then,” Will nodded, decision made. Perhaps multiple decisions made? “Usual time? 1800?”

“That is adequate. I’ll…see you later then, Commander.”

“That’s Will to you, Worf,” Will called over his shoulder as he made his way to the turbolifts, a pressing issue on Deck 4 calling his name. “I’ve told you a million times, Worf, you can’t discuss antiquated romantic poetry without using given names!”

“It’s hardly antiquated.”

Will almost missed Worf’s grumble as he got into the turbolift. Will smiled ruefully at the closed lift doors, before it melted away in deep thought.

If tonight was what Will thought it might be, he had to be prepared.

___

Will showed up early. He was off-shift, but still in uniform. Will was hoping there was some kind of appeal in that—in maybe having Worf…remove and reveal parts of Will that the members of the crew, his professional colleagues and friends, didn’t have the rights to.

When Worf answered the door with a swift glance up and down Will’s body (himself in off-duty clothes), it seemed he may have made the right choice.

“Come in,” Worf hesitated. “…Will.”

“Thanks, Worf. How’s the shoulder?” Will asked as he stepped into Worf’s quarters.

Earlier in the day a bundle of pylons had fallen on Worf in Engineering. Will had received notice that Worf was fine, just needed some old-fashioned dermal regeneration.

“Adequate, Dr. Crusher is a skilled physician.”

“I’ll bet she is. I hear her patients are very cooperative and forthcoming as well.”

Worf, no joke, harrumphed. Will laughed as he glanced around. Worf’s quarters were well-lit, but cozy. Will had been here before, of course, but the air was…more charged this time. It had been charged the last time he was here too, when they had first picked up the complete works of Ochok. Now Will let the tension wash over and through him as he made his way over to the book stand Worf had erected on his dining room table. It was designed in a “V” structure to ease the strain on the binding of the large, illuminated manuscript. Will looked down at the beautiful script that weaved through the illustrations and almost laughed.

It was all in Klingon.

“Were you planning to translate?” Will half-teased, his heart beating fast and loud in his chest at his own presumptiveness.

Worf came up next to him. In the corner of his eye, Will could see Worf looking down at the gold-leaf text. Will himself could feel his heart jumping in his throat, his chest felt both too tight and alarmingly light.

Worf’s hand came up, to hover over the beautiful illuminations, not quite brushing the figures twisting in ecstasy on the page.

_“Credence bare to credence hone’d_

_Awry the sail, lot drought own’d_

_My faire arisen, arise, arose._

_His hand guides ships, to hearth, to home.”_

Will felt all the blood in his body as it was acutely, swiftly drawn down into his gut and lower, leaving him lightheaded.

It was one thing to discuss, to sample, to cite. Over drinks, over meals. In public.

But to _re_ -cite? To perform a _recitation_? In private quarters?

Worf’s hand dropped to his side. Will swallowed dryly. He lifted his own hand to hover in much the same way, not quite touching the corner of the book.

Then he let his hand drop and said wryly, “You don’t want me to reply in refrain, do you? My Klingon is terrible.”

Will finally turned to Worf and saw, with his own eyes, that he didn’t need to reply in words at all.

The kiss was hot, and slick, and just this side of crinkly and rough from their facial hair. Worf’s hand cupped the back of Will’s head and Will let his own hands roam and pull at Worf’s broad shoulders. Will was no spring chicken or clean-shaven youth. He and Worf were big, and in Worf’s case, burly. Still, Will could feel Worf’s sweetness in their kiss, just as he could feel Worf’s hunger as he clasped Will close. Will raked his blunt nails over the back of Worf’s pants as he let Worf’s tongue brush and tangle with his own.

Will could feel where he was hard in his own uniform and could feel where Worf was hard in more than one place as their hips met and pressed tight. Will released his grip on Worf’s glute to scramble at the clasp of his uniform. He managed to get the first few fastenings undone before Worf was kissing and sucking his way down Will’s throat, his beard scratching against Worf’s cheek.

“The couch, Worf. I want—let’s—”

Worf nodded against Will’s neck, making a hungry sound that may have been agreement. They stumbled their way to the mauve sitting couch and fell in a tangle of hefty bodies and long legs. Will felt himself pressed into the material of the couch, Worf’s full, wonderfully crushing weight across his hips, stomach and chest as they clawed, grappled, and moved against each other. Will was panting, groaning low as Worf ground his intimate parts against Will’s intimate part, singular. Even clothed, the heat of it, of them, was driving Will insane. He had no idea how long he and Worf moved against each other like this, grasping and gasping, letting each other into their mouths, biting and raking their teeth against each other’s throats. At some point Will felt himself gasping, begging.

“Want you, please, Worf, let me get my mouth on you.”

Worf seemed to have trouble breathing, before he managed a low, wounded, “Yes—of course, anything, Will.”

Worf lifted off of Will and Will slid off the couch quickly in excitement, knees thudding heavily on the carpet. Will grabbed handfuls of Worf’s hips and thighs to move him where he wanted, Worf groaning at the sensation of being manhandled. Will yanked at the clasps of Worf’s pants, slipping his greedy hands into the opening, over the two lines of heat trapped under Worf’s underwear. Worf’s stomach muscles jumped at the sensation of Will’s hands pressing against his cocks, and he hissed when Will pulled down the band of his underwear, exposing them to the air. Will took both cocks in hand and began to stroke, utilizing the mobility of the foreskin to begin pleasuring Worf without much lubrication.

Will, though, Will felt high on the sheer power he felt from holding a cock in each hand. His arousal was so heady, he was surprised he wasn’t drooling. His own cock was straining against the crotch of his uniform, still barely unbuttoned at the neck. The fine, painful, wild edge of arousal made him feel drunk with pleasure rather than frustrated. All he wanted was to bring his partner to ecstasy. So he bent over Worf’s body and took part of him into his mouth.

Worf’s groan at Will’s action was guttural. Will was careful of his teeth but sloppy in all other respects. He let his drool coat the cock in his right hand, dripping out of his mouth as he moved the flat of his tongue along the underside and took as much as he could in one go. Will let his tongue drag up and down as he moved his head along the length. Will’s eyes lidded with arousal at the knowledge of his own wanton actions. He felt the sour tang of pre-come mixing with his saliva and leaking out of the corners of his mouth. And the sounds! Slick, raunchy, wet sounds that nearly eclipsed the sounds coming from ether of them.

Will held the base of the left cock steady as he twisted his wrist over the right one. Multitasking and constant movement was the name of the game. That, and alternation. While he was on the downstroke of one, he had the head of the other bumping against his throat. While he was lapping the head of one, he was twisting his grip just under the sensitive head of the other, stimulating the frenulum and glands. And when he switched? When he brought his mouth over to the other and lavished it with wet sucking and moans, he felt the thighs on either side of him begin to tremble and watched the clothed chest in front of him heave heavily as he wrung gasps and breathless exultations from Worf.

Will suddenly had a wicked idea, taken from part of a fantasy he had entertained for the last several weeks. Before he could question it, he brought the two heavy cocks together, both slippery and damp from his mouth, and held them next to each other with both his hands. He made sure he had Worf’s attention—direct eye contact, as he fit his mouth around both heads at once. Worf nearly shouted, and he moaned openly at what Will imagined was the crass, utterly erotic sight of Will’s mouth stretched wide at the corners around two cock heads. Will felt where his moustache just edged over his lip, messy with saliva and pre-come. Will tongued between the cocks, right where glands met shafts in that tight, intimate space.

The sound that Worf made at the movement seemed particularly desperate, so close to the edge. Will let both cock heads out of his mouth and began jacking and sucking in earnest, offering maximum stimulation to both heads. Worf was chanting Will’s name, nearly sobbing it when Will pulled the cocks together again and fit both heads into his mouth, thrusting his tongue between the two, just under the glands as before. The sensation and image of Will committing this act again finally brought Worf over the edge with a brutal sob.

Come filled Will’s mouth, hitting the back of his throat before it began dribbling out the corners of his mouth. Will moved his mouth as much as he could over the heads, a little desperately perhaps, until it seemed Worf was finished. When he finally let the heads fall out of his mouth, globs of come dripped off his tongue, catching in his moustache and beard. The texture was sticky and thick, closer to the sensation of corn syrup than human ejaculate, but it carried the same salty, bitter taste. It was also clear, like corn syrup.

Will’s body and brain were one large live wire of arousal. He didn’t even stop to think before gathering as much of Worf’s spend and his own saliva, dipping four fingers into his mouth and managing a few wipes with the edge of his hand while franticly unbuttoning his fly and pulling out his cock. At Worf’s sound of concern and attempt to sit up from his collapsed position on the couch, Will merely pushed at Worf’s stomach and pressed his face into Worf’s crotch, feeling the heat of the softening cocks on his face and the wiry tangle of Worf’s balls on his chin. He inhaled the musk and sweat of Worf’s underwear and crotch and brought himself off right there, on the floor of Worf’s quarters, with the sucrose texture of Worf’s come easing the way.

He continued to breathe the scent of Worf deep as his body shivered, the last drops of his orgasm wrung from him. Eventually Will rolled his head, resting it against the scratchy material of Worf’s thigh. There, he did his best to catch his breath. He felt a warm hand close over the side of his head. It occurred to him that Worf was petting him, gently, but persistently.

Will licked his abused lips before he managed to mumble,

_“Adore’d with voice and thrust, with sigh_

_Wing’d upon an’ heart laid lie,_

_With crown and scythe,_

_Thee doth be borne,_

_When wak’d again,_

_Er’ languid morn.”_

His voice was a rasp, but he didn’t stumble over a single word. Worf’s hand had frozen in its petting motion. But it wasn’t hardly a second before two hands on either side off Will’s face moved him and he was being kissed. Kissing and being kissed. Quite languidly.

When they broke apart with a slick sound, Will rasped, quietly, “I know you prefer the Shirur interpretation, but it seemed fitting.”

“It is,” Worf said, still and quiet himself. “I concede.”

“Oh?” Will perked up some. “The great Shirur supporter concedes?”

“On this one interpretation.”

“Ah, there that way lies the slippery slope, my friend.” Will managed to lever himself off his haunches as he pressed sticky kisses against Worf’s mouth, sliding hands up strong thighs as he teased with his voice and body.

Worf stopped him with a hand on his shoulder and jaw. “You have to wash this out before it hardens,” he said, gesturing to the mess in Will’s beard.

“Oh yes, to a hard-candy, melted-sugar texture, correct?” Will laughed easily at the expression on Worf’s face. “Hey, I did my research.”

“Indeed. Then you would know if I had spent inside you it would have remained liquid due to—”

“My body temperature, yes. Human ejaculate is not so different, you know.” Will considered Worf through half-lidded eyes, mostly because he was a little sleepy but also for latently seductive purposes. “I’ve been researching a whole lot of things about Klingons in the past couple of months, I’d say my education is _coming_ along quite nicely.”

Will laughed at the way Worf’s ridges crinkled as he looked up towards the hypothetical sky in silent suffering.

“C’mon,” Will stood up, fly still gaping open as he moved to unbutton the rest of his uniform. “I think I need more hands-on experience with this particular stimulator, uh, simulator.”

Worf’s eyebrows seemed to rise even higher, but he allowed himself to be cajoled and tugged towards the direction of the bedroom. Will was nothing if not a quick study, after all. An excellent teacher’s pet, to be sure.

**Author's Note:**

> When my roommate found out I was writing this fic she said “good luck with your poetry and your two dicks”
> 
> Let me know if I should change "Will" back to "Riker" I went real crazy over that one


End file.
